


Spectre

by sootonthecarpet



Series: Spectre and then its even d/s-ier sequel [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Clothed Sex, Come Shot, Coming Untouched, Dominance, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Requited Love, Rimming, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Submission, Verbal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 08:38:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sootonthecarpet/pseuds/sootonthecarpet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fill for a prompt on the kinkmeme. It got sort of D/S-y. (Also, the tag 'Clothed Sex'—specifically it would be Naked Male Clothed Male. And clothed masturbation at one point.)<br/><i>post-Reichenbach; there are several times when Holmes "appears" to Watson; perhaps the first is accidental; then because Holmes—having read "The Final Problem"—can't bear not to see him, and goes to secretly see him while Watson sleeps. Perhaps even more than once—the publication of "The Hound of the Baskervilles" (published post-fall but set pre) is another opportunity. Watson, catching these glimpses of Holmes only when he's on the border between sleep and wakefulness is sure these visits aren't "real" and thinks they must be a manifestation of Holmes' ghost. And since his friend is clearly dead, at some point Watson sees no fault in letting him know how he felt. Holmes sees no better way to comfort Watson—without revealing he really IS alive - than to convince him that yes, his spirit has moved to a better place, and that yes—he "came back" to let Watson know that he returned his feelings, and yes, yes, yes a spirit is very adept at talking a man to orgasm.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Spectre

Holmes put down the magazine, or rather, it slipped from his limp hands. He felt utterly desolate and horribly guilty.

He buried his face in the crook of an elbow. He wanted to tell himself that there would have been a way to do this that did not involve pretending to be dead, and that he had been horribly, horribly wrong in attempting this, but he knew that he had made a good choice in the matter, even if he _had_ hurt the only thing of value to him in the entire world. 

He hadn’t even fallen out of love with him in the numerous months since they parted—since Watson, being immensely kind, went to soothe a nonexistent dying Englishwoman. 

Holmes groaned and rolled off the sofa, landing face down on the floor with an uncomfortable thunk. 

“I have to see him,” he mumbled, muffled. He rose to his knees and pulled his hands through his hair, closing his eyes tightly. He would see Watson. He had to.

 

It took quite a great deal of stealth to get in through the ground floor window and all the way upstairs to Watson’s room without waking anybody. He was glad that Watson was not sleeping with the door locked, because he could not bear more delays at this point. He stepped into the room quietly and opened the curtain just enough for a bit of dim light from outside to allow him to see Watson’s face.

He looked so much older already. Holmes swallowed and pushed back another wave of guilt. 

Watson shifted a little, eyelids tensing and opening a slit.

Holmes quickly made his escape.

 

He stayed away for three days before he decided it was probably safe to try again. 

This time he stood further away from Watson and just watched him sleep for a while.

He didn’t look peaceful. He was not happily relaxing in unconsciousness, he was taking a much-needed opportunity to try to escape from reality and probably fail. Holmes wished he could speak to Watson, reassure him, but there was nothing to say and no way of saying it.

Watson’s breathing changed.

“Holmes…?” he asked after some time had passed. Holmes started violently.

“Watson,” he managed. Then he jumped out of the window.

 

He swore to himself that he would not return, that it was too much of a risk, that he had to avoid all contact with Watson. He only managed to last another five weeks. 

His ankle was still sore as he crept once again into Watson’s bedroom. Watson was curled partway on the bed, his back to the window. Holmes was sorry for this, as he could hardly make out Watson’s face in the dim light. He knelt by Watson and tried to make him out in the darkness.

Watson opened his eyes.

Holmes looked at him.

“You are dead,” Watson told him.

“I know,” Holmes said.

“Are you going to leave again…?” Watson asked.

“Yes,” Holmes responded. He crossed the room rapidly and left through the window again. This time he had the sense to climb down, although he scraped the palms of his hands on the wall.

 

He passed nearly a week without visiting Watson, then returned. He knew he really shouldn’t be doing this, but a chance to converse with him, if even just a little—

He needed it.

This time he wanted Watson to wake up. He made a slight sound, just the beginning of a whisper.

Watson shifted and opened his eyes.

“You’re back,” he said quietly.

Holmes nodded.

“I did not previously believe in ghosts,” Watson mumbled. He put his face in one of his hands. “I miss you terribly, you know.”

“I am sorry I have had to leave you.”

Watson gave a long, shuddering sigh.

“I am sorry that I did not see that letter for the ruse that it was,” he said. “But I suppose that if it had not arrived, you yourself would have found a way to send me away.”

“It was all worth it,” Holmes told him. “That fight. My death. To rid London—to rid all of Europe of that man and his agents.”

“It was even worth breaking my heart,” Watson lamented bitterly. He sat up and rubbed the back of a hand across his eyes. “Are you happy, now, at least?”

“At times. My existence is greatly diminished without your presence.”

“I suppose that’s why you came here,” Watson said.

“Do you object?”

“It is painful to see you again, but not so bad as being alone.”

Holmes moved closer.

“I still care deeply for you,” Watson said. “I try not to let my life revolve around a dead detective, but it is difficult when I have not yet managed to cease to—” he silenced himself. 

Holmes looked at him silently.

Watson reached out for him, and Holmes shifted away.

“Don’t go,” Watson said. Holmes left.

He was shaken, and not sure what the best plan was.

Well, the best plan was to not speak to Watson until such a time as he could make his return, which was possibly never going to happen.

He was back in Watson’s room the day after next.

Watson woke shortly after he arrived, and sat up again.

“You mustn’t touch me,” Holmes said quietly, not looking at him.

“You are unhappy,” Watson observed.

“I miss you. You are still very dear to me—you are the most important thing that there is.”

Watson closed his eyes for a few seconds. “Permit me to confess a secret?”

“You may always tell me your secrets.”

“I have been hopelessly in love with you since partway through ’84, and it has only gotten more serious as time has passed.”

Holmes swallowed. “Still?” he asked.

Watson nodded.

“I, I am also, I feel the same way about you,” he said. “Although for perhaps a year longer.”

“Oh,” Watson said, although it might have been a caught breath.

“I am sorry that I did not inform you before that incident at the waterfall,” Holmes said. He was grateful that his back was to the window, because his eyes were watery and he did not want Watson to see.

“I am sorry also,” Watson said.

“I am leaving now, but I will return,” Holmes told him. He climbed out the window again.

 

Holmes was true to his word and came to see Watson the following week. 

“I wish you could hold me,” Holmes confessed after an awkward silence. “Your arms have always looked so warm.”

“You have no idea how much your lack of respect for my personal boundaries delighted me,” Watson responded. “When you would lean across me to reach something, or grip my hand unexpectedly…”

“Or come to wake you at ungodly hours of the morning?” Holmes asked wryly.

“I did wish I was waking up to you in a more pleasant context,” Watson said, grumbling a little. 

“Such as?” Holmes inquired.

“Oh you know very well such as. It’s not as though you were polite enough not to tease me almost every time you noted that I had participated in a sexual encounter.”

“I couldn’t resist it.”

“I know,” Watson said, glaring fondly.

There was a lengthy silence.

“I suppose you never had much of an interest in that sort of thing,” Watson said. “It was still nice to imagine you did.”

“I had a great deal of interest where you were concerned. I was exceptionally good at hiding it.”

Watson sighed.

“I should leave,” Holmes said. Watson bit his lip and nodded.

 

“I have had an idea,” Holmes said, waking Watson.

“What?” Watson asked him sleepily.

“I said, I have had an idea.”

“Oh… What sort of an idea?”

Holmes sat down on the floor comfortably, so that he could easily make eye contact with Watson, who was lying on his side. “The good kind.”

“You are as vague in death as you are in life, I see.”

Holmes smiled. “It occurred to me just a little while ago. You are doubtless aware of the existence of pornographic literature. I was lamenting the fact that we could not participate in a certain type of activity. Then I realized that I might attempt satisfying you by conversation alone.”

“I’m not quite sure how that would work.”

“I would speak to you. Additionally, you might do things. Such as touch yourself,” he added bluntly.

Watson flushed a little.

“You should remove your nightshirt,” Holmes suggested.

“We’re going to do this now?”

“It’s been a very long wait. Yes.”

Watson sat up to pull the garment over his head, then lay back down.

“I used to think—“ Holmes began, and his voice caught for a moment. “I used to think about kissing you. Unexpectedly. I would find you sitting on the sofa and sit next to you, press you back against it. Bring my lips to yours. It would confuse you for a minute… Then you would realize what I was doing, and kiss me back, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

“Your hand would trace up from between my scapulae to the back of my neck, gradually. You’d slip a finger under the collar of my shirt, and I would sigh and move closer to you. You’d open your mouth, then you’d run just the tip of your tongue along my lips, encouraging me to do the same. I would, and you’d tip your head to fit us perfectly together, tongue sliding against mine. At this point, I would be unable to keep entirely quiet, and a few tiny sounds would escape me. You’d pull back slightly, our mouths parting quite slowly, and then you would bite my lower lip and suck it into your mouth. I would gasp, and you would start to unfasten my collar and shirt. Once my tie had been removed and my waistcoat unbuttoned, you would push my various garments off of my shoulders. Your fingertips would stroke down my chest to my stomach. I shiver—“ he did not notice his own slip into a different tense, “And you release my lower lip to bring your mouth to my neck. I lean into you, trying to remain silent as you kiss and suck at me, but nothing has ever felt so good as this. You suck hard just below my jaw, nibbling gently, and I shudder and whine a little. Your hands move to my hips to still them, which is how I realize that I have been grinding into you unsteadily. When you remove your mouth from my neck, you comment that you’ve left something of a mark, and that unless I cover it with makeup, everyone will know you’ve been kissing me. I close my eyes for a minute. I am still half dressed, and yet somehow I have never felt more naked. You suck at my collarbone.”

Watson reached under the blankets of his bed and gripped himself, stroking slowly.

“I want to taste more of your skin,” Holmes continued. “My hands are almost trembling, and it is difficult to open your collar, too difficult, so I slip from your lap to the floor in front of you. 

“You look at me, and I manage to unfasten your trousers. By now, your cock is notably erect, and I pull it free. For a few moments, I simply hold it—it feels so natural in my hand, warm and solid and perfect. I stroke you once, almost covering the head with your foreskin before moving back down to completely reveal it, and you exhale slowly. 

“I lick you carefully, where a groove runs around the edge of the head of your cock. Following that, I run my tongue up your frenulum and move to the very tip of you, which I cover with my mouth and suck on. I press my tongue against the tiny opening as if trying to insert myself, and you stroke a hand down my hair to rest on my bare shoulder.”

Watson’s hand was moving faster, now.

“I am at this point so aroused that my trousers have become painful. I sit back and remove them hastily. I begin to fondle myself with my left hand, focusing the attentions of my right on your length. I nudge your legs wider apart with my elbow and move down a bit to suck one of your testicles into my mouth.”

Watson groaned quietly, then pressed a hand to his lips.

“Don’t—don’t. I want to hear you,” Holmes said. “I release it after a little while and kiss my way up your cock, almost worshipfully. I look up at you—I meet your eyes. You curse and your head falls back as I take you into my mouth, just an inch or so at first, bobbing my head a little, my wet lips stroking over the head of your cock.

“I move to fit more of you into my mouth as I become unable to stop myself from thrusting my hips into my own hand. I take you in until you have filled my mouth completely, but it isn’t enough—I need you all, I need to have you entirely within me. I take a few moments to steel myself, and then I swallow you completely. You shudder and run your fingers through my hair, thighs very tense. I stay there as long as I can, then pull back enough to breathe. I repeat this motion in reverse, and continue like that. It feels so very good to know that I can do this to you, that you’re letting me suck your cock. I shudder, and come into my own hand, moans muffled with you still deep in my throat. I can’t breathe—I pull off of you and gasp for breath, resting my head on your thigh. You stroke my hair, murmuring praises that I am hardly conscious enough to hear. I shake my head to clear it, and apologize for loosing control. 

“’I’m glad that you lost control, Holmes,’ you say, and inhale sharply as I take you back into my mouth. I try to be faster now, not wanting you to become impatient, although there seems to be no danger of that. You quiver and pulse within my mouth, and the feeling startles me—I pull back. I have enough sense to continue touching you, so I grip you, stroking you firmly… most of your seed lands on my face, but some falls on my neck and collarbone, dripping down even to my chest. I look up at you and take you back into my mouth, slowly, carefully, tasting every inch of you as I pull back. You whisper my name.”

Watson gasped hoarsely and went still as he spent into his hand. Holmes took a shaky breath.

“I ought to go,” Holmes said after a lengthy silence.

“Please, not yet,” Watson said weakly. “I… You don’t have to say anything. Stay until I fall asleep?”

Holmes did.

 

They did things of this sort on several subsequent occasions. It was always Holmes speaking to Watson, who remained silent.

“I want to converse with you, this time,” Watson told him. “During the… the sex.”

Holmes gave him a curious look.

“It won’t just be you speaking, it would be an exchange.”

“I… all right,” Holmes said. 

“Right after you had finished a particularly complex chemical experiment, you would get quite a lot like how you get after a case,” Watson said. “The way you become flushed, and bright-eyed… To be perfectly honest, it makes me want to shove you against a wall.”

“I would wince a little, going tense, surprised… and then I would relax. If you are doing it, I am in no danger.”

“I would pull your shirt open—you have a disconcerting habit of doing chemistry in your pyjamas and a dressing gown, which you have done on this occasion—and immediately move to biting at your neck and collarbone.”

“I quickly become breathless, clawing at your shoulders and gasping.”

“I move down your chest, sucking on one of your nipples quite hard, going all the way to your stomach.”

“You dip your tongue into my navel, and I shudder.”

“I reach around you to grip your arse, and then I stand. I use my grip to drag you close to me, and I continue to suck the side of your neck.”

“I close my eyes, murmuring quiet encouragements, still breathless. Your hands squeeze me tighter.”

“’Do you want me to kiss you?’ I ask quietly, nibbling on your earlobe.”

“I nod, unbuttoning your waistcoat and pushing it open. I turn my head in the direction of your mouth.” 

“I pull back and begin sucking at your chest again. ‘Be patient,’ I say.”

“I cry out in dismay. I consider tugging you up and forcing you to kiss me, but instead I grip your shoulders and push you back a little. ‘We are in the sitting room,’ I point out. ‘Take me to bed with you.’”

“I nod and half drag you into your bedroom, undressing you and pushing you down onto the mattress.”

“I pull you down with me and wrap my legs around your waist.”

“I shift my hips against you. The wool of my trousers is rather coarse, and you whimper.”

“My legs drop from around your waist as you begin to move more steadily, grinding roughly.”

“You work your hands between us and pull my tie from my waistcoat, tugging me nearer.”

“I kiss you, hard and desperately.”

“I grind against you harder.”

“Your tongue finds mine as I manage to remove your jacket and waistcoat. Your shirt I unbutton, but I do not want to remove it, because I have had to push you away once already for your previous garments.”

“I draw back from you and grip your cock, stroking it. I lean down to lick up the dampness at the tip, which has already soaked a tiny wet patch into the front of my trousers.”

“I shudder and beg you to fuck me.”

“I put your legs up over my shoulders and lick down your perineum to your entrance, still looking a bit raw from when I had taken you just that morning. I circle you with my tongue for a while, smirking at the way it makes you squirm.”

“I curse when you finally thrust your tongue inside me, and I grip your hair lightly. You move within me, and it’s so intimate it’s almost overwhelming. I am unable to silence my reaction.”

“I push two fingers in you right away, relishing your shocked gasp. I locate your prostate and massage it carefully.”

“I whimper and spread my legs apart for you. ‘Now, please,’ I beg.”

“I continue to finger you for quite some time, stretching you open slowly. You are a breathless mess by the time I shift back to remove my trousers.”

“I am unable to stop staring at you. I rise on my elbows to watch you.”

“I enter you smoothly. You moan my name.”

Watson had thrown off the blankets, and Holmes’s gaze was fixed on his cock. It looked incredibly hard, and he was quite surprised Watson had not yet touched it.

“I grab your hair again,” Holmes said breathlessly. “I wrap my legs back around you. You slip your hands under my arse, and you, you pull me up a few inches off the bed.”

“I pound into you harder, your moans falling against my parted lips.”

“You reach for my cock with one hand, and I meet your eyes, silently pleading.”

“I hold you very loosely as I stroke you, and you gasp in frustration.”

“I dig my fingertips into your upper arms, bruising you. My eyes are shut tightly. Despite the lack of stimulation, I am close… Both of us know that I won’t be able to come if you don’t touch me—I’ll be on the edge, and you can keep me there as long as you like...” Holmes shivered a little.

“I fuck you hard, pressing you down into the mattress with a hand on your shoulder.”

“I beg for you to come inside me.”

“I kiss you, almost desperately. Your arms wrap around my neck as I taste your mouth, I, I push myself deeper inside you, I, oh god.” Watson clenched his eyes shut and moaned breathlessly. He thrust his hips up against empty air.

Holmes looked at him, swallowed hard. “Oh, god, John,” he murmured. “I wish—” Holmes cut himself off. “Come for me.”

Watson gasped and shivered, come pulsing onto his stomach from his untouched cock. Holmes felt dizzy witnessing it, on the edge himself. He moved closer.

“You—you can’t be dead,” Watson panted out. “You can’t be, I need you, I just want you back…” He looked up at Holmes plaintively and gripped Holmes’s wrist.

Holmes pulled away. “John,” he said quietly.

Watson’s lips parted. Holmes knew what he was going to say, he knew Watson would ask him to remain. He fled, terrified. Outside, he found the most out of the way corner he could manage within a few yards of the building. He collapsed in it. He pressed a hand into his lap, biting his other forearm as he came so hard his vision grew unfocused.

Then he curled up tightly and wept.

 

He did not allow himself to see Watson again. He did not even allow himself to go near the man, not even in disguise. He forced himself to focus on working and prayed that the man would forget that Holmes was a solid, living creature.

Months of loneliness and arduousness went by. 

When Holmes read of Adair’s murder he was happy enough that he actually kissed Mycroft on the cheek. (Mycroft looked very affronted.) He put on a few basic elements of a disguise; just enough that if someone who used to know him glanced at him, they wouldn’t recognize him.

He practically ran to Watson’s practice. He did not bother waiting to be shown in to Watson’s office, he merely flung open the door and shut it behind him.

Then he grew timid.

He approached carefully. Watson was looking up at him, meeting his eyes but saying nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Holmes said quietly. He could not look at Watson any more, so he turned his attention to the windowsill.

Watson got up and walked around the desk. He put a hand on Holmes’s face carefully. Then he wrapped an arm around his waist with even more caution.

“I am sorry,” Holmes said again, and buried his face in Watson’s hair.


End file.
